by Anna Schmidt
“I would like to offer you the position of foreman for the Clear Springs Ranch, Mister…Chet.”
“You’re offering me work?”
“I am offering you the position of foreman.”
He leaned against a stall and crossed his arms over his chest. “And if I say I don’t want to be your foreman, what then?”
“Why would you turn me down?”
The late afternoon sun was coming in through gaps in the rafters, and the light settled on his face. He grinned, and the way that smile relaxed his features made her look away. Amanda was right—sparkling eyes or not, this was one good-looking cowboy.
“Because, Miss Porterfield, I don’t want to be the boss of these men. Besides, they know what they need to do. They are all good at their jobs from what I’ve seen.”
“But they need direction.”
He uncrossed his arms and ran a hand through his thick hair. “Well now, from what I’ve been hearing, miss, that would be your job. You are in charge since your father died, right?” He glanced back toward the men—toward Roger. “On the other hand, maybe that guy has realized his mistake in leaving. Looks to me like he’s gotten right back into that saddle.”
He had a point. Roger was ordering the men around, raising his voice when they didn’t react with the speed he expected. “Excuse me a moment, Chet.” She headed back to where Roger stood over the calf. The other hands had scattered to do his bidding. “Exactly what do you think you’re doing, Mr. Turnbull?”
“Taking charge. Looks to me like somebody needs to.” This last he aimed directly at Chet.
“I am in charge,” she said quietly. Behind her, she heard Chet clear his throat and had the oddest feeling that he was offering his support—or perhaps his admiration. Either way, that gave her the strength she needed to stand her ground. In spite of her uncertainty about how she was going to keep this place that had been her father’s legacy from going bankrupt, like so many other small neighboring ranches already had, she would not back down.
Roger cupped her cheek, and behind her she heard the drifter take a step in their direction. “Just go, Roger,” she said, lowering her voice so the others would not hear. Then she stepped away from him, breaking the contact. “You made your choice. Now please just go,” she repeated and walked past him and out into the yard. She hoped that neither man was aware that her knees were shaking so badly that walking was a new adventure.
* * *
She was quite a woman, this Maria Porterfield, Chet thought as he watched her walk across the yard and resume the task of hanging the wash. First she had stood up to him and then the guy who seemed to think his job as foreman carried with it certain side benefits when it came to his former boss’s daughter. Now that the boss’s daughter was in charge, that probably didn’t sit well with a man like Turnbull. From what Chet had observed, this was a man who was used to having his way.
Turnbull was watching him now, sizing him up. Neither man moved. Neither man blinked. It was a contest to see who would speak first. As far as Chet was concerned, it was not worth his time to play this game. He was tired and hungry. He jammed his hat in place and walked past Turnbull, nodding once before continuing on his way. Once he reached the yard, he wondered if he ought not to just keep on walking.
His horse’s reins were looped over the corral fence and Cracker was waiting, as always, for him to make a decision about what they would do next. That dog was the closest thing he had to a best friend, someone he could talk to and trust. Whatever decision he made, he had to do right by her. He had pretty much decided that whether he stayed or went, Cracker deserved her dinner and the horse could use a good brushing. He led the animal to one side of the stable. Some time later, he was just finishing the grooming when he turned to find Maria clutching a bundle of laundry she’d evidently collected from the clothesline. The setting sun was behind him, and he knew she was having trouble seeing him clearly.
“Something you need, ma’am?”
“I believe I offered you a position. I need your decision.”
He swallowed, taking his time, hoping he wasn’t about to make a big mistake. “I’ll take the work—as a hand, not as your foreman.”
“I don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to take a position that will pay more.”
He thought about everything that Eduardo had told him the night before. “It’s not my place to offer you advice, miss, but seems to me that Mr. Turnbull wants to come back. Don’t you think it might work out better for you having him here than over working for the Tiptons?”
Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “Mr. Turnbull is none of your business. The question is will you stay on.”
He shrugged. “For a while.”
“I need people I can depend on, Chet.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She scowled up at him. “Does that mean I can trust you to be here when we need you?”
He allowed himself the pleasure of looking her over for a long moment. “Can’t say, ma’am. Only you can decide if you trust me or not. It means I’ll work hard for as long as I’m here.” He realized he was wearing his hat and snatched it off his head. “I do thank you for the chance to work, Miss Porterfield. I won’t let you down.”
She studied him for a long moment, squinting up into his eyes as if trying to decide whether or not to believe him. Then she brushed past him on her way back to the house. “We’ll see about that,” she muttered.
* * *
Amanda was waiting just inside the kitchen door when Maria finally made it to the house after what seemed like the longest walk in her life.
“They sparkle, don’t they?” Amanda demanded. “Did I not tell you?” She sighed dramatically.
Juanita stood behind Trey, cutting the boy’s hair while he, as usual, read a book. The housekeeper’s snort said what she was thinking more clearly than any words: Maria’s asking the cowboy to stay on might just have been a huge mistake. Amanda was an innocent when it came to men, and when their father had been alive, she had had little choice but to live by his strict rules of decorum. But now that he was dead and their mother was incapable of getting dressed by herself, the role of disciplinarian fell to Maria…along with everything else.
Trey was no problem. In fact, if anything, she worried about his social ineptitude, and it occurred to her that a soft-spoken sort like Chet Hunter might be a good influence on her younger brother. But it was equally clear that Amanda was in danger of thinking she was in love with the drifter.
“Is he staying? Nita said you were going to hire him.”
“What I said, chica, is that your sister was going to let her temper get the best of her once Roger Turnbull showed up and started throwing his weight around like he’d never left.” Juanita stared at Maria, raising one quizzical eyebrow. “Well? Que, no?”
Even Trey lowered his book as they all waited for Maria to admit the housekeeper was right—as usual.
“Mr. Hunter has agreed to stay on.”
Amanda let out a squeal of delight while Juanita turned away with a shake of her head and Trey went back to his book. “Well, we are shorthanded,” Maria reminded Juanita defensively.
“You’re the jefe,” Juanita said, brushing the hair clippings from Trey’s neck and shoulders.
And of course that was the problem. The last thing Maria wanted was to be the boss. What she really wanted was to be her father’s daughter and see his eyes light up again with love and pride. What she really wanted was to sit with her mother late at night, sharing her dreams of a husband and family and hearing her mother assure her that someday…
“Well, the boss has had a long day,” she said. “I’m going to lie down.” She started up the two steps that led to the wing where their bedrooms were and hesitated. “Is Mama all right?”
“She hasn’t left her room all day. Hasn’t eaten anything either.” Juanita
sounded more worried than usual. “She’ll eat for you, Maria.”
Maria retraced her steps and waited while Juanita filled a plate and set it on a tray along with a pot of hot tea, a porcelain cup and saucer, a linen napkin, and a setting of Constance’s good silver.
“Don’t forget the bud vase,” Amanda said as she plucked a single yellow and orange painted daisy from the bouquet on the kitchen table and stuck it in a crystal vase she grabbed from a shelf.
“Tell her we love her,” Trey added.
Maria could not seem to swallow around the lump that had filled her throat. Sometimes she got so caught up in the expansion of her responsibilities that she forgot that she was not alone. Jess might have left, but Amanda and Trey were still there, and their grief was no less than hers—different perhaps, but no less. Surely if they all worked together, they could bring their mother back to the world of the living.
She walked to the end of the hall and tapped on the door. “Mama?”
No response.
Balancing the tray in one hand, she turned the handle and pushed the door open. The room was dark, but she could see her mother sitting at the open window, the curtains billowing around her like a veil.
“Is your father back, Maria?”
“No, Mama. You should eat something.”
“I’ll wait for him.”
This was the hardest part. Maria did not know what to do. Should she go along with her mother’s fantasies or be brutally honest in her attempts to make her mother face reality? She didn’t know. What would her father do? She didn’t know.
“I think you should eat something. Nita says you haven’t eaten all day.”
“I was busy.” She patted the space beside her on the chaise. “Come, sit with me and tell me about your day, Maria. We may as well wait together.”
With the back of one hand, Maria brushed away a single tear that had escaped as she set down the tray. She poured her mother a cup of tea and handed it to her. “He would want you to eat,” she said.
Her mother smiled and sipped the tea. “Oh, Maria, men always have to find a way to be in control. The secret is to let them believe that they are.”
“Yes, Mama,” she said. Maria sat down and wrapped her arm around her mother’s thin shoulders as together they looked out the window at the deserted yard below.
* * *
Judging by the way the men included him in their conversation as they all sat outside the bunkhouse after supper, Chet was pretty sure he’d been given the stamp of approval.
“Hunt,” Bunker muttered and nodded his head. The rest of the men glanced his way uneasily.
“Pardon?” Chet asked.
“Hunt—that’ll be what we call you. It’s your name, ain’t it?”
“Hunter,” Chet corrected.
Bunker shrugged. “Hunt—Hunter. It suits because you finished the hunt for the strays. Brought ’em back.”
Chet heard the others murmur the nickname, trying it out, squinting at him to see if it fit, then nodding and grinning.
He glanced back at Bunker. “Well, it’ll sure keep the distinction between me and my dog,” he said.
“Cracker,” Bunker announced to the others as if they didn’t already know the border collie’s name. “So we’ve got Hunt here and his trusty dog Cracker.” Bunker stroked Cracker’s neck. “And now that we’ve tended to that bit of business, I’m hitting the hay.” He stood up, yawned loudly, and headed inside. Just before entering, he turned back. “Hunt!”
“That’s me,” Chet replied.
“You don’t snore, do you?”
“Haven’t had any complaints before.”
“Good. Your bunk’s right under mine, and I’m a light sleeper.”
The others did not even attempt to disguise their snickers. A couple of men laughed out loud as they dumped the last of their coffee onto the dry ground and followed Bunker inside.
An hour later, Chet understood the men’s humor. Above him, Bunker snored like a steam engine at full throttle. The others seemed to have grown used to the noise, but although Chet was exhausted, he could not get to sleep. His mind was cluttered with unfinished business. He’d agreed to stay on, but once he’d turned down the foreman’s position, there had been no discussion of wages. A woman trying to run a ranch under the best of circumstances could be tricky. This woman—this slip of a girl—trying to run a ranch on the very border of a company determined to buy up as much land as possible could be a total disaster. According to the gossip he’d gotten during supper, Tipton Brothers had already bought up several other small ranches in the area. Those who refused to sell had been driven out by the combination of the ongoing drought and Tipton undercutting the going beef prices.
Nope, from where he sat, Maria Porterfield didn’t stand a chance, and if that was the case, there was no reason for him to stay on. Maybe tomorrow he would go see her and let her know that it wasn’t going to work out…
Between one thought and the other, exhaustion finally claimed him.
He was dreaming about her just before someone shook him awake. But his dream had had nothing to do with conducting business. In his dream, they had been dancing, and she had been wearing a lavender gown.
“Hunt? Wake up.”
It was pitch-black outside. Eduardo was leaning over him, whispering as if he didn’t want to wake anyone else.
“What’s—”
“Shhh. Miss Maria needs your help.”
Chet sat on the side of his bunk and reached for his boots. He shook first one and then the other and heard something scuttle across the floor. He saw a critter the size of the palmetto bug that might have been in his boot if this was Florida. But this was Arizona. Still, critters were critters. “What’s going on?”
“The senora is missing. Miss Maria has gone out looking for her, but my wife Juanita is worried, so she sent me to look.” Nothing about Eduardo’s message made sense, but he followed the bow-legged Mexican out into the yard anyway. “I do not see so well in the dark anymore,” Eduardo continued in a more normal tone as he led the way to the corral.
“Miss Porterfield’s mother took a horse?” Chet asked.
Eduardo shrugged. “I don’t think so. Usually she can be found in the cemetery.” He gestured to a fenced area set some distance from the house. “But Miss Maria and I looked there already.”
“Where is she now?”
“She went inside to change into her riding clothes. She told me to keep looking, but then I thought about the way you found those strays and…”
Cracker, who had reluctantly risen from her place on the floor next to Chet’s cot and followed them out, perked up. The dog was uncanny when it came to sensing adventure.
“This woman is not a stray, Eduardo. How would I begin to know…” He glanced up at the sound of a door closing, then saw Maria striding toward them. She was dressed in canvas trousers, a shirt a couple of sizes too big for her, and boots.
“Did you find her?” This was directed to Eduardo. “Really, Mr. Hunter, you need not concern yourself with this. I—”
“I asked him to help,” Eduardo admitted.
“Why? He doesn’t even know Mama.”
Chet cleared his throat. “Uh, folks, maybe we could settle my being here or not later. If Mrs. Porterfield is out there somewhere…”
“Let’s go,” Maria said and started for the corral.
“Have you checked down by the stream?” Chet asked, suddenly aware of the sound of moving water nearby. “I mean, how far could she have gotten?”
“You don’t know my mother when she sets her mind on something,” Maria replied. But then she paused and glanced toward the place in the darkness where the stream ran closest to the house. “Earlier she mentioned the picnic…” she whispered and took off at a run.
Chet didn’t pause to ask questions but set ou
t after her, surprised at how fast she could move. By the time they reached the bank of the water, he was breathing hard and she was stalking up and down, calling for her mother as if she’d just taken a leisurely stroll down to the water’s edge.
“Mama?”
A branch cracked under Chet’s boot, and Maria held up her hand, signaling him to stay where he was. Then he watched as she pulled off her boots and started to slowly wade into the water, looking downstream.
“Mama?” she said again, a child calling her parent.
He peered beyond her, knowing she had spotted something—someone. He caught a glimpse of white in the shadows and let his eyes adjust to the darkness until he’d located the older woman standing in the water farther downstream. He moved along the bank, taking care not to startle her as Maria moved forward with more difficulty over the slippery rocks that lined the shallows.
When he was nearly opposite Mrs. Porterfield, he saw a wide-brimmed man’s hat on a fallen tree that jutted out over the water. It was the hat Maria had been wearing earlier, but Maria had not brought the hat—her mother had. Acting purely on instinct, he picked it up, attracting the woman’s attention as he did. He froze. But instead of bolting as he had feared she might, she smiled and stretched out her hand to him. “The water is lovely, my darling.”
He flicked a glance upstream to where Maria had stopped. She nodded and motioned him forward.
Mrs. Porterfield laughed—giggled really. “Don’t be such a scaredy-cat, Isaac. The water is not even up to your knees. Come on. If you had let me teach you to swim when I taught the children…”
Not knowing what else to do, he jammed the hat onto his head and walked into the water.
“You’re wearing your good boots,” she chastised as he waded toward her. “Juanita will not be pleased.” She shook her finger at him, but he took some comfort in the fact that she was still smiling.
He caught hold of her hand. “And you are shivering,” he said. “Why don’t we go back to the house and Juanita can make you some tea?” Keeping hold of her hand, he moved slowly. To his surprise, she stepped closer to him and rested her head on his shoulder.